


Pretense of Discretion

by theoldgods



Series: Part of Our Game [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Mycroft Holmes, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Friends With Benefits, Masturbation, Multi, Older Woman/Younger Man, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 04, Texting, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 12:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11231187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: Mycroft makes good on his promise to introduce Alicia to his young friend, while Alicia uses Anthea for release and edification.





	Pretense of Discretion

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another entry in my ongoing Smallcroft and associates porn series, though mostly also standalone if necessary.
> 
> Thanks to Nicola and Lou, as always, for Britpicking and cheerleading. Any remaining mistakes in British vocab and the like are mine, and corrections on that point are welcome.
> 
> I reblog Mycroft/Lindsay Duncan/BBC Sherlock/etc., among many other things, at [my tumblr](http://theoldgods.tumblr.com) if that's your brand of poison.

Mycroft glanced at the open door behind her, air, such as it was, filtering in from the bowels of the Diogenes. She raised an eyebrow.  

“Something important and classified?”

“It's neither of those things,” he told his blotter, tapping a chewed pencil against the desktop. “What you asked, two weeks ago. It's possible.”

“Yes, I rather got that sense from the actual conversation at the time.”

“Confirmed, then, if you're going to nitpick my choice of words.”

“Where’s the fun in doing elsewise?” She shifted her purse against her shoulder. “When?”

He winced. “I haven't gotten that far yet.”

“Well, you know how to reach me when you do, and I don't mean by dodgy surveillance or whatever practices the Holmes family use nowadays.” She let him see her teeth. “I’m sure I can think of a longer word than ‘fuck—’”

“Yes, quite.” He opened a folder she had brought. “If that's all, my lady.”

* * *

His text arrived as she led Anthea back through the sitting room and to the staircase.  

_Friday? Mine?_

“Important?” Anthea murmured, a hand brushing her hip as they crowded close on the stairs.

She shivered as she locked the screen, leaving his inquiry unanswered, and pushed open the door to the master suite.

“Not at all.”

Mycroft returned to mind after, as Anthea’s dark hair tangled with her own pale, wispy strands across the duvet. Anthea, naked, lay with one arm across her chest, fingers massaging her bare breasts.

“You're thinking.”

She sighed, leaning further into Anthea’s touch. “Sorry. I've been rudely reminded of your direct superior.”

Anthea’s face was vaguely scandalized. “God, I hope I don't fuck like—”

“Christ.” She buried her laugh against Anthea’s neck. “No, God, stop that now. He was the idiot who texted me earlier.” 

“Perfect timing, the arse.”

“Naturally.” She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling the scent of sweat and the collision of their two perfumes. “Will you hate me if I ask you a question related to Himself after you just had two knuckles in me?”

Anthea mouthed her nipple, sending a rush up her spine. “Mmm.”

“What do you know about his special friend?” 

“The ginger?” Anthea asked, kissing her sternum.  

“Oh, is there more than one?” She stroked Anthea’s hair. “Git.”

“I've only seen a ginger, younger than I am.” Anthea considered the bedding for a moment. “I think he's in Himself’s phone as ‘Christian.’ Works under an MP, maybe?”

She groaned. “God save us from politicians.” She pinched Anthea’s thigh where it slid against her own, biting back a laugh at Anthea’s sniggering. “He better not be of any importance.” 

“Could also be somewhere in the City, if you prefer a ‘finance fucking intelligence’ sort of scandal.” 

“No, either will do, thanks.” She kissed Anthea’s shoulder, licking the taste of salt into her mouth. “I'm supposed to meet this charmer.”

“Ah, well.” Anthea shrugged, rolling toward the edge of the bed, their legs knocking briefly together before separating. “I've given you everything I know on that front.” Her eyes glinted as she got to her feet. “Better pray Himself’s tastes run to yours when it comes to useless young men.”

“If they're useless, _I_ certainly see no point in them.” She watched Anthea slide back into bra and knickers, eyes focused on the slow sway of her arse as she rooted around the foot of the bed in search of the rest of her wardrobe. “Mutually assured destruction, I suppose, if he ever wants to get anywhere in life without Mycroft blowing him to hell.”

Anthea tossed a blouse at her as she stretched against the bedlinens. “Dim but circumspect is always fine with me, my lady.”  

She curled around the shirt, rubbing her smile against its satiny texture, and settled in to watch Anthea finish dressing.

“Indeed.” 

After Anthea had left, she, still naked in bed, turned to the phone balanced precariously on the edge of her bedside table. Mycroft’s earlier words were there, followed by another query.

_Eight?_

She ran a finger through her curls, where heavy contentment pooled between her legs.

_I'll expect the full tour._

* * *

 Mycroft was standing in the side doorway as she pulled up to the house. He slid his head outside as she opened the car door.

“Through here.”

She glanced back at the dark and empty drive as she got to her feet and slammed the door shut. “Expecting further company?”

His fingers were flexing erratically against the doorframe. “Inside.”

She walked slowly through the chill January air and paused on the step. Mycroft’s face was gray. “If you’ve some sort of flu, tell me now, please, before—”

“Do you think I do this very often?” His voice was hoarse. “In. Since when do you drive?”

The room behind him was dark; she blinked twice to adjust her vision, and then paused. Before her was a mostly empty space—except for an enormous stainless-steel refrigerator and a wall-mounted phone. 

“Is this supposed to be a kitchen?” 

Mycroft locked the door behind her and crossed to the entry into the rest of the house, where he turned, lit from behind, to look back at her. “...yes?”

The front of the fridge was littered with takeaway menus; she touched one. “Is there actually any food inside?”

He groaned. “If there is, I’m not offering you any.” 

She grinned and stepped back. “There isn’t any to offer.” 

“That’s not technically true,” he said as she followed him through an empty entrance hall and into a sitting room. “I’ve brought you a third, as promised.”

The third, leaning against the arm of the sofa, was barely twenty-five, in gray trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing freckled pale skin and a long reddish birthmark across the back of his left hand as it tightened around a cardboard coffee cup. His hair, more auburn than truly ginger, flopped across his forehead, partially covering one green eye. The other widened as she stepped around Mycroft into the light proper. 

“Mycroft, good God.” The ginger’s voice was bright, borderline cheery, and he took a quick sip from his cup before wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, fingers splayed, white against the pinkish red of his lips. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“I don’t _try_.” Mycroft’s eyes softened anyway, despite his nervous energy. “Do you know each other?”

“Not yet, that I know of.” The boy’s smile deepened. “I’m happy to take what I’m told and ignore the rest.”

“This is my friend, Christian,” Mycroft said, reaching over to pry the cup from the boy’s hand. “He’s overly fond of horrendously sweet drinks that allegedly have coffee in them somewhere. Christian, this is Elizabeth.” She coughed to hide any amusement as Mycroft took a sip and shuddered. “She is well above my clearance, never mind yours.”

“That, ma’am, is easily done.” Christian inclined his head, drumming fingertips against leather. “An honor.” 

She slid the cup from Mycroft’s hands and drank—overdone coffee, under a thick coating of white chocolate.

“Dark chocolate, and something that’s not soy milk, would have made it an honor without even needing to go any further, but I’m sure you’ll make up for it.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes as Christian laughed. “I’ll take that into account, ma’am.”

She held out the drink until Mycroft took it again. “Call me ma’am again and even drinkable coffee will not help you.”

Christian’s eyes sparkled. “Apologies, m—Elizabeth.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to laugh, softly against the edge of the cup, as Christian glanced in his direction and she watched the shift of Christian’s hair against his forehead.

“You can pick another name if this one will cause too many problems.” Christian cocked his head. “Like I said, I'm easy.” 

She looked directly into his eyes for a moment before speaking. “No, I quite like this one.” Christian brushed a strand of hair from his face; she smiled. “Allowing Mycroft to feel clever is dangerous, though sometimes important.”

“And he can’t even take credit for mine.” Christian observed her face, her waist, her shoes, quick darting glances that were very nearly genuinely shy. Her abdomen tingled as he fixated on her breasts out of the corner of his eye, before looking away at Mycroft again. “I’ll try not to live up to it, unless that’s the sort of thing you like.”

“What I like is a desperate Mycroft.” She stepped closer to the sofa while Christian tightened his grip on its arm. “Your hair coloring is lovely, though, and your freckles remind me of a weekend on Capri in 1976 or so.”

“Twenty years too early for me,” Christian murmured. “Good things take time.”

She extended a hand; Christian took it in his, his touch warm and dry. She tightened her grip around his knuckles. “Capri had a tongue nearly as useful as Mycroft’s. I hope they still teach that.”

“Out of practice, lately, but I do enjoy it.”

She released him with a nod. They stood watching each other, a happy burble lurching in her stomach, until Mycroft cleared his throat. 

“Will this do?”

Christian’s smile swallowed half his face. “More than.”

“My—Elizabeth?”

She bit her lip, watching Christian’s gaze transfer to her mouth, the spread of his pupils as she flicked her tongue momentarily free.

“Oh, yes.” She turned to Mycroft. “Though I pray we needn’t fuck here, as your sofa looks even less comfortable than mine.”

“I have a bedroom.” Mycroft’s face was ashen under the tinges of color on his cheeks. “I have more than one.”

Christian unfolded himself from the sofa and crossed the room, bare feet padding across wood, to reclaim his coffee cup. He tossed it into the bin under the sideboard before reaching out to stroke Mycroft’s ear with gentle fingers. “I’ve wanted to see the master for so very long.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “You’re lucky Elizabeth is worth it.” His skin rippled, cool and sticky, under her own hand, his lips parting for the edge of her thumb when she slid against them. She removed her brogues one at a time with her free hand, drawing a stockinged foot up his lower leg until he shuddered. “There’s a chair, for your more voyeuristic needs.”

“Of course there is,” she whispered, mouthing his ear as he choked on a groan. On the other side, Christian’s left hand was entangled in Mycroft’s waistband while his right rested against Mycroft’s ribs. “Please, let’s.”

The hall and stairway were a blur of wood paneling, a step creaking underfoot as she nearly trod on Mycroft’s shoes. The bedroom itself was airy and enormous, dark wood and gray linens, and she dumped a pile of freshly laundered shirts out of the promised armchair before stretching out in it, legs hooked across the left arm. A few feet away, Christian toppled onto the bed and loudly exhaled.  

“God, this thread count.” His arse, still in form-fitting trousers, shifted as he turned his head to look back at Mycroft, removing his shoes in the doorway. “Absolute heaven.”

“Is there an age restriction on buying decent bedding?” Mycroft asked, stripping off a sock. “It's the same as in the guest room, I promise you.”

Christian dug his fingers into the duvet, flexing his forearms. She removed her own socks, dropping them atop the pile of shirts on the hardwood floor, as Mycroft took a tentative step forward.  

“How do you want us, ma’am?” 

She rolled her eyes at Mycroft as Christian tittered. “What, do you need direction?” She reached up under her blouse to unclasp her bra, Mycroft’s fervid gaze a darting tingle across her breasts. “I'm happy to watch you star in anything, you know that.” She slid the bra onto the laundry pile and unbuttoned the blouse as Christian sat up and turned to face the room, his eyes lingering on her chest.  

“You're going to distract me from my usual task of fucking Mycroft senseless.”

“God forbid,” she murmured, pulling hairpins out. She sighed as her chignon released, sending her hair to her shoulders. “I'd like to see that, if you'd like to do it.”

Mycroft was staring at her head now. “Did I know it was that long?”

She glanced down at the fraying gray-blonde strands across her bare chest, framed by the blue panels of her open blouse. “You could be referring to multiple things, though I can't be bothered to be concerned—”

“You _know._ ” His voice was choked. “If you want insults you can have those too, but it’s like...moonlight. I've never seen your hair down.”

“Neither have I,” Christian said, getting to his feet. Her snort was accompanied by a badly subdued smile. “I approve.” As he passed the chair, he reached out to brush her knee, which tickled long after the brief contact. “I think Mycroft means to be admiring and seductive, or something.”

“I was told you had no ability to command.” She watched Christian wrap two fingers around Mycroft’s wrist, white on white. Mycroft went still. “Should I demand penance for the lie?” 

“Our encounters are usually silent.”

“Grunting isn't silence.” Mycroft’s lips barely moved as Christian began unbuttoning his shirt, fingertips lingering against Mycroft’s chest between each button. “He is usually not so voluble.”

Christian slid his second hand from Mycroft’s wrist to finish unbuttoning. Mycroft’s chest was pale, his chest hair as dark as that on his head. She leaned her head in her hand to watch them remove the shirt entirely and leave it on the floor before turning their attention to Christian’s.

“Grunting.” Her cunt was beginning to tingle in earnest as Mycroft undid the buttons of Christian’s shirt, revealing the hairless, freckled musculature beneath. “Sounds less erotic than I'm sure you can make it.” 

Mycroft stilled beneath Christian’s lips on his, producing a muffled burst of sound that fell short, strictly speaking, of a groan as Christian, shrugging out of his shirt, reached into Mycroft’s trousers. Her arse shifted in the chair as she rested one hand against her hip, massaging lightly. Mycroft dug his fingers into Christian’s arse as Christian began mouthing his ear. 

Her hand wandered to her zip.

When next their lips met, Christian had one hand down the front of Mycroft’s trousers and the other in his belt loop, while Mycroft kept both hands splayed, periodically contracting and releasing, across Christian’s arse. Mycroft whimpered into Christian’s mouth as Christian deepened the kiss, flashing tongue when they parted for a moment for air. 

She had one hand stroking her hip and the other tracing circles over the fabric above her clit by the time Christian had Mycroft’s fly open. Through the light fabric of his pants she could see his swelling interest, and she pressed harder into her clit as Mycroft whined at Christian’s hand directly on his cock.

To watch, without needing to triangulate any motions herself, was a delicious, sparking freedom. Mycroft was red and increasingly sweaty, yes, but also _open_ in a way she could rarely see so clearly, his body leaning against Christian’s, his mouth half open, their foreheads touching as Christian wanked him. Christian in turn was shiny, with perspiration and with some internal good humor that washed brightly across the lines in Mycroft’s face and the dissipating pallor of his skin. Christian’s mouth was an unthinking smile, large and loose, and when Mycroft slid his hand down the back of Christian’s trousers, cupping tightly, Christian’s gasp was half laugh. The compulsion to close her eyes and wank without any further pretense of discretion was beaten out only by the happy burn in her abdomen at a sight she was not sure her mind’s eye could recreate.

Christian had Mycroft back against the bed in ten fumbling steps and Mycroft’s trousers and pants on the floor in a few heartbeats more. Mycroft’s cock arched red and swollen toward his navel as he gripped the duvet behind him for balance, Christian kissing the side of his neck, the wiry hair around his nipples, and his navel before reaching out with his tongue to flick the head of Mycroft’s cock.

“Fucking—” Mycroft freed one hand to push Christian away just enough to touch Christian’s fly, as she reached into her own knickers to put her fingers directly in her curls. The skin beneath blazed. “Please.”

Christian took Mycroft’s wrist in hand again for several breaths before releasing him and pulling down his own trousers and pants. When he stood upright again, looking down at Mycroft nearly spread-eagle in the bedding, he had a thickly rigid cock and two thin foil packets, one of which he tossed onto Mycroft’s stomach. As he opened his, Mycroft glanced toward her, eyes wide and half-feverish, mouth gaping.

“Good?”

His voice was breathless; she ran the tip of her index finger down toward her entrance.

“He handles you prettily, pet.”

Christian’s ears reddened as he rolled the condom onto himself. “Lube.”

Mycroft, poised almost meditatively with his cock already sheathed, startled as if woken from sleep, sitting up and dragging himself up the bed to open a drawer in the bedstand. The bottle wavered in his grasp as Christian crawled up onto the mattress and reached for Mycroft’s cock again.

“You don’t need direction,” she said as she slid her finger inside, the walls of her cunt fluttering briefly around the intrusion. “You’re bliss.”

Mycroft wiped his forehead while Christian coated a finger in lube. His head tilted back as the finger explored the edges of his entrance. “Pl—ease, oh Christ—” Christian’s finger breached him in one quick thrust “—please, your voice.”

She added a second finger, biting back a delighted groan at the added pressure, and began to move vaguely in time with Christian as she stroked her clit with her second index finger. The lower half of her body was awash in almost palpable electric sparks, her legs bucking with a particularly direct rub.

“Slightly—busy—”

Christian laughed as he removed his finger and applied more lube, this time to his own cock. Mycroft kept looking over Christian’s shoulder, at the faint movement of her bare breasts under her blouse, her hands rocking between her legs. His stare, coupled with the moan as Christian, kneeling over him, inserted two fingers, sent a jolt from the base of her spine to her brain. 

“I love this,” she said, a hoarse near-whisper, pulling her trousers and knickers further down her thighs for better access. Christian removed his fingers; Mycroft slowly turned to place his arse in the air, at nearly perfect waist height, as Christian pressed his cock against Mycroft’s entrance. “Fuck.”

Mycroft pressed his weight down against his forearms, arse shifting with the cant of his hips, though Christian remained still, tip only grazing as Mycroft shifted back against him.

“Do you take real cock as well as you take fake?” Her throat was working again, her mouth open half to moan and half to let whatever nonsense she might want fall out of it. Christian’s hands tightened around Mycroft’s hips as she spoke. “So delicious last time, might as well see—”

Christian pushed inside, arse and thigh muscles rippling; Mycroft swore, pressing his forehead against the bed; she rubbed, hard, an almost bruising stroke as she thrust her fingers in deeper. Her legs jerked with another wave of electricity, warm and tingling but just short of the edge. Christian bent to press his lips to Mycroft’s shoulder blades.

“So warm.” His murmur drifted half inaudibly through the haze of her brain. “Shall I?” 

Mycroft choked, laugh or groan or something else entirely. “Move.”

The first thrust was wild, nearly upending Christian onto Mycroft’s back. Her own wanking faltered in sympathy, and she tilted her head against the back of the armchair, blinking. By the third thrust, Christian had his rhythm—long and deep strokes, hair sweaty across half of his face, Mycroft producing some muffled sound rather close to a keen. The pressure under and around her fingers thickened, sweat sticking to the back of her neck. 

“God, you’re gorgeous. Both of you.”

Christian giggled, hands sliding along Mycroft’s sides; Mycroft pushed back, forcing Christian in deeper.

“Speared on cock, Mycroft.” She licked her lips. “Is he thick?”

Mycroft groaned. “Thicker than you.”

Her cunt throbbed, her hips snapping.

“You look so good on your hands and knees, some randy arse being _filled_.” Her breath stuttered as her fingers nearly slipped out of her with the violence of her thrusts, roughly in time with Christian’s. “Needy and whorish.”

Mycroft wrapped a hand around his cock.

“Oh, does Christian let you touch yourself? Lucky arse.”

“Be here all—year—if I didn’t.” Christian’s hips slammed into Mycroft’s arse, his eyes fluttering shut with the momentum. “Old man.” 

She felt herself cackling, rattling and hoarse, as her heart raced and her vision blurred. The dull thud of flesh on flesh, broken with an occasional sharper smack, and groans echoed in her ears as her mind barrelled inward on herself, a bright sphere of heat teetering on the edge of implosion in her lower abdomen. Whatever reply she tried to make— _you’ll be shagging the entire adult life cycle tonight, boy_ —disappeared in the rush as she pressed in on her clit and came.

She lay mostly boneless in the chair as she crawled back to awareness, opening her eyes onto Christian thrusting brutally into Mycroft, one hand on Mycroft’s hip, one stripping Mycroft’s cock. As she watched, Mycroft’s shoulders tightened with his orgasm, his voice disappearing into a whisper-shout as Christian laughed. He was still laughing, bent half over Mycroft’s back, as he thrust a final time and also came, his arse contracting.

Her legs were mostly back under her control by the time Christian, having binned the two used condoms, collapsed beside Mycroft, laughter transmuted into panting. Mycroft, wiping sweat from his own eyes, sat halfway up to meet her gaze.

“More?” 

She kicked her trousers and knickers the rest of the way off and got to her feet, leaving her blouse on the floor halfway to the bed. “Thoughtful pet.” The linen was cool beneath her, despite their exertions, as she hoisted herself up alongside them. Both men watched her with roving eyes; as she settled between them, Christian extended a hand toward her chest before pausing in midair. She took his fingers in hers and placed them between her breasts.

“Thank you,” he whispered, swooping a thumb over her left nipple as she sighed and closed her eyes. A second hand stroked her right breast as a third began combing through her hair. She leaned back against Mycroft’s bulk as his other hand began massaging her scalp. “God, you're lovely.”  

They worked in silence for several minutes, their fingers damp with sweat against her skin and hair. She inhaled, sharp and pleasantly, as lips brushed a nipple.

“When you're ready,” Mycroft murmured as Christian continued tonguing her breast. 

She opened one eye to glance down at Christian’s skewed hair and swelling red lips. Her cunt tingled anew.

“Which of you will do the honors?” 

Mycroft’s palm tickled, hot and sweaty, as he cupped the back of her neck. Christian pressed his nose into the hollow between her breasts and brushed two fingers down the line of her ribs, raising goose pimples.

“Is it a competition?” Mycroft’s breath stuttered against her ear, belying the nonchalance of his voice. He tightened his grip as one of Christian’s fingers stroked, barely present, just above her clit. “Known or unknown?”

She pulled gently away from both of them to lie across the bed, replacing their body heat with the room’s faint chill. She shivered, a combination of cold and delight, as they turned to look down at her.  

“Give me something new, Christian.”

He approached her slowly, one hand atop her knee, as Mycroft crawled to sit by her head.  

“This won't be better than your Capri memories, ma’am.”

“Ah, well.” She shifted to place her head in Mycroft’s lap, her hair fanning across his legs as he audibly inhaled. “Points for honesty.”  

Christian’s warm and predampened finger against her entrance was broader than her own. He tucked the tip inside as she spread her legs.

“You can do more,” she said after a few moments, as his thumb brushed her curls. “Much more resilient than—”

He slid the finger the rest of the way in, pressing his thumb down against her clit; she sighed as Mycroft shifted beneath her. Christian was grinning when she focused on him again.

“It's been a while.” He rubbed more quickly as he positioned a second finger near her entrance. “Not quite used to how easy it goes through.”

She draped one arm back over her head, wrapping her wrist and fingers against Mycroft’s flank. “Mouth instead, please.”

Christian raised an eyebrow as he removed his hand. “As you wish.” 

He was tentative, his mouth kissing the inside of her thighs as she dug her fingers into Mycroft’s skin. She spread her legs yet further to grant Christian better access as he touched his tongue against her clit, and he glanced up across her stomach and breasts, eyes shining under a sweaty curl across his forehead. 

“Gymnast,” Mycroft said as heat fluttered at the base of her spine. Christian smiled, half to himself, before bending his head again.

“Noted,” he whispered against her cunt, setting her laughing as he pressed into her again. Her voice turned into a breathy gasp as he slid his tongue inside her.

Mycroft’s fingers pulled gently across her scalp, back and forth through the strands of her hair, as Christian moved, an increasingly askew auburn mess between her thighs. Christian was softer and less certain than Mycroft, avoiding the direct hit of her clit for something more oblique, but his lips were deliciously full with each kiss, teasing out slow threads of electricity from her cunt up into her stomach.

“Harder,” Mycroft said, after two or three minutes had passed, as her eyes skittered across the ceiling. Christian’s fingers tightened against her thighs as Mycroft bent to whisper in her ear, in a wobbly voice. “Yes?”

She smiled as Christian’s tongue paused. “Harder.”

Christian obeyed, gaining in strength and speed as he began applying pressure directly to her clit again. She felt herself moan as his lips dug in harder against her. After another pause, in which she closed her eyes to hear Mycroft’s breathing and Christian’s muffled panting, the heat and wetness returned, and she clung to Mycroft’s waist as a slow throb burned at the base of her spine.

The rhythm of their lungs, of Mycroft’s subvocal groans of appreciation and Christian’s slick movement against her, faded into the background as she began pressing back against Christian’s face. In the darkness he was both himself—youthful and warm—and Mycroft, nose slotted in tightly against her clit, gray eyes with pupils blown wide, handcuffed to the base of her chair under a table. She rode a wave of heat up to a near-peak with the vision of them wrapped around each other like eels on the underside of her eyelids, and before she could fall, another jolt of electricity brought her Mycroft, hair mussed and chin damp, astride Christian’s cock, mouth open and moaning in time to her own sounds as her cunt clenched in on itself and she came properly.

By the time the world had gone dark and cool again, and her eyes struggled open, Christian had returned to kissing her thighs, one finger inside her as some sort of grounding ballast against any lingering aftershocks. She looked up; Mycroft was red faced and sweaty, his eyes wide, though his cock remained soft beneath her head.  

“All right?” Christian was half hard as he sat up, massaging her lower legs. “Again?”

“No,” she said, smiling as he promptly flopped down flat against the bed, his head inches from hers. “You?” 

“It will pass,” he told the duvet. “I’m going to flatline shortly anyway.”

Mycroft offered him a hand; Christian took it in his, a glancing grasp, before transferring Mycroft’s touch to his cheek.

“Just let me get my breath back, and then I'll be clear.” 

“Of course,” Mycroft agreed, stroking along Christian’s cheekbone as his other hand rubbed her scalp. “My lady?”

“Sit quietly, please.” Her own heart was pounding still, audible at the base of her skull, echoing between her ears. “Yes?”

Mycroft shifted, leaning back against a pillow, and closed his eyes. She stared at the ceiling, drifting in and out of thought as her pulse slowed and silence reigned, her eyes drooping against the remnants of adrenaline in her veins.

When she next came to full attention, Mycroft and Christian were both sleeping, Christian’s head on Mycroft’s knee. She glanced at the clock. 

 _11:15_.

“Fuck.” 

Her stomach rumbled as she sat up, dislodging her hair from Mycroft’s limp hands and narrowly avoiding elbowing Christian. They remained asleep as she slid onto the floor and approached the pile of clothing strewn from the bed to the door. The shirt she picked up was not hers—possibly Mycroft’s, from the faint scent of vetiver, though both he and Christian were tall enough that the sizing was roughly the same—and she shrugged as she put it on, rolling up the sleeves until her hands were usable.

She padded out into the dark hallway, ignoring lighting in favor of creeping along on tiptoes like a burglar. By the time she’d descended the staircase to the first floor, this had lost enough of its humor to send her in search of the overhead lights. She paused as they flickered on and the portraits lining the main downstairs hallway came into view—none of them were Mycroft, but two bore particularly startling resemblances to the family line, and several older ones were in ruffs severe enough to belong alongside Woody’s ancestors in the country house. 

At the end of the hallway, past various offshoots into parlors and other living areas, was a closed wooden door. She considered it for five or so seconds before trying the handle, which opened without a fuss.

The screen was enormous, white against dark wood, and she had not seen an old-fashioned film projector since her own childhood, too many years ago to count. Tape trailed out of it where a film had not been put away after its last viewing. She approached the table, with three neatly labeled canisters spread across it. 

 _The Maltese Falcon_ and _The Big Sleep_ were obvious choices, their celluloid contents neatly spooled. Whatever hell _Lady Be Bad_ had crawled out of, however, it was not one she knew, though judging by the empty canister Mycroft was certainly familiar with it.

She was still considering what other horribly titled films Mycroft might own— _do they make a_ Boys Gone Wild _on celluloid?_ —as she made her way into the sad kitchen. The refrigerator reigned nearly silently over an emptiness that extended to the cabinets, containing two boxes of crackers, a bottle of olive oil, and a suspicious amount of flour and baking powder. She opened the fridge itself to find a bottle of champagne, a liter of orange juice, a pint of semiskimmed, and takeaway containers that held mostly mouldering Chinese. The freezer had ice cubes and Haagen Dazs, and it was this last she selected, along with a spoon, to take back upstairs.

Mycroft, face bleary, stirred as she reentered the bedroom.

She slid onto the bed; Christian grumbled as he too awoke, shifting his head off Mycroft’s legs. She pried the lid off the carton and inserted the spoon. “Belgian chocolate?” 

Mycroft sniffed and looked away. She took a spoonful, closing her eyes in momentary delight at the richness spreading across her tongue. 

“What time is it?” Christian asked.

“Late enough,” Mycroft grumbled, taking container and spoon from her and staring at them disdainfully before taking a mouthful himself. “Far too late for sugar.” Chocolate stained his lips as he offered the ice cream to Christian, who, blinking, accepted.

“Got to let this caffeine kick in again if we’re doing a sleepover.”

“Please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You were out solidly, white chocolate soy hell or no.” She waited until Christian had swallowed his mouthful and passed the ice cream back to her before asking, “Did you know Mycroft likes extremely badly titled noir films?”

Christian grinned; Mycroft groaned. “I saw one called _Lady Be Bad_ last week. It was softcore porn, to be honest, although maybe I just think that because my cock was down his throat for—” He dodged Mycroft’s swat. 

“Funny, that was the one on the reel.” She licked the spoon, trailing melting chocolate onto her nose. She wiped it off slowly. “Frequent flier, or laziness?”

“We were distracted,” Mycroft said as he reclaimed the carton. After a moment’s hesitation, he leaned over to lick a stripe of ice cream from Christian’s chin.

“He knew every line,” Christian murmured, brushing her hair behind her ear. “My lady.” 

“Shit.”

Mycroft’s face was red again. She nodded, her mask of solemnness threatened by a horrible desire to laugh.

“No points for that, boy.” 

“I don’t _know_ for sure, Elizabeth.” Christian pulled a face as she giggled. “He dropped that earlier, and it seemed about right.”

“Did it?” She took a half bite of ice cream before offering the spoon to Christian. “This isn’t a guessing game.” 

Christian mouthed the spoon and half the handle, lingering around it as Mycroft, grumbling, pressed his forehead into her back. By the time Christian pulled off, swallowing the Haagen Dazs, blood was rushing around her head once more.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

She shifted, drawing Mycroft’s head into her lap. Christian stroked his scalp, slow circles against the wisps of black hair, while Mycroft sighed.

She nodded, taking another scoop.

“You both will, darling.”

**Author's Note:**

> This assumes that the TFP house and the sad kitchen house are one and the same, located in some posh Home Counties suburb, possibly one that Mycroft only really visits on weekends or when he has a spot of free time. As for what Mycroft would do during the week, well, a London flat? The Diogenes itself? Pick your poison, I guess.


End file.
